


I'm Living with Your Memory in the Attic in my Mind

by oppressa



Category: The Killing
Genre: F/M, Memory Loss, Post-Apocalypse, Road Trips, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-11 05:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3315038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oppressa/pseuds/oppressa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither of them are the type of people that should still be around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Living with Your Memory in the Attic in my Mind

**Author's Note:**

> So the premise of this is most people got a disease that if they survived, caused them to forget parts of themselves and everyone in their lives apart from their most immediate family. And it caused society to go back to a very basic state, people abandoning their jobs, just taking what they wanted, lighting random fires, and so on.
> 
> I guess this all strikes after Linden confesses to killing Skinner but before she leaves her house on the island at the end of S4. Here she leaves to go back into Seattle. I'm sorry to take off on a crazy different track than the one leading to that lovely final scene. In my defence, they get together a bit quicker in this!

He's watching her, the blond guy smoking on the post, buried in a ratty sweatshirt and an oversized black jacket. He's almost gaunt, but tall, she can tell that even though he's sitting down. He doesn't look too good, though, to be shamelessly staring at her. Okay, she's being foolish, stopping people with just the one picture only for them to shake their heads and walk on, but he is not helping, an added distraction.

However there is something about him under all the warning signs she feels strangely acquainted with, that draws her towards him. Up close he's older than she'd thought, just boyish with it. The shadows under his brown eyes resemble deep blue bruises, even so, they have a soul in them still.

“I'm looking for my son.” She says, and he seems to respond to the sound of her voice with an inhalation of breath which gives way to him clearing his throat. “Could you tell me if –”

“I ain't seen him.” He rasps, without even glancing at the photograph.

She shoves it emphatically under his nose. “He's fifteen. Would you at least just _look_ –”

His eyes bulge in surprised recognition and his fingers lift to brush the edge. Then he lets them fall again and averts his head.

“You saw him.” More than that, it looked for a second like he _knew_ him, although where Jack would have met this guy is a mystery in itself.

“No.” He stands up. He towers over her, but she stands her ground.

“You have. It was all over your face.” She grabs onto his jacket though she couldn't make him stay put if she tried.

“Let go of me, a'ight, I got somewhere to be.”

 _No you don't_ , she cries silently, _where could you possibly have to be_? “Please.” She resorts to, but he's gone, glances back at her once and then quickens his step. She thinks she does that to people, somehow. Makes them run away.

 

The next day she goes back to that same place, with no idea whether he'll be there again, but if there's even a chance she has to catch him. He isn't to begin with, so she waits. It's not long before he turns up, hands in his pockets, and nods at her.

“You got a car?” He asks. “You need a car if you're going looking for people, right?”

“I have.” She says. She's sleeping in it, too. She doesn't think she's going back to the island.

“I need a ride. Got people I wanna find too.”

“It's almost out of gas.” She interjects, before he starts getting any ideas. She can't afford to be picking up some potentially dangerous stranger. She thinks of the gun in the glove box. She wasn't even really considering her safety, bringing it with her. When she'd found it in a drawer in her house and took it out, she knew she'd used one before.

He sniffs, like he thinks she's lying. “Let me see that picture again.”

“Yeah.” She gives it to him, to hold, doesn't press him like last time.

“I know him.” He says, “His name...is it Jake? Or Jack, right? It's Jack.”

Her heart clenches in her chest. She restrains herself with difficulty, wanting to shake him, to make him tell her how the hell he could possibly know that. “Can you remember where you saw him? Or anything at all?”

He frowns. “I don't think so. Just something... I remember him, is all. He was a nice kid.”

He bites his lip, glances up at her, briefly. She hopes her eyes aren't too watery but she thinks they are.

“Do you think that'll get you a ride?”

“Hey, I knew his _name_ , didn't I? I was right.”

“Can I have the picture back, please?”

He's reluctant to pass it to her for some reason, and she has to take it from him, folding it safely away in her coat as she walks off. It was stupid to believe a guy like that had any answers for her. Nevertheless, it appears she's unintentionally made a friend. After a few seconds, she hears his footsteps scuffling behind her.

“Yo, I also got gas. I went down to the pumps and ran off a load before it was all gone.” She stops. So he is forward thinking, more so than meets the eye, at any rate. “You could have some. All of it, if you wanted.”

She turns around. “What's the catch?”

He almost smiles. “I am.”

And just like that, she's got herself a maybe-not _so_ pathetic straggler.

 

“That's what I used to drive.” He says, pointing at a burnt-out metal husk in the parking lot, that looks like it could once have been a vehicle. “It was a piece of crap, but fuck _people_.”

“Yeah.” She does even feel a little sorry for him, unable to get anywhere, walking the streets, and wonders how he kept his head down. She was pretty safe, away on the island during the disorder, the raiding of stores and the taking of possessions. Still, she had to get out of there.

His place is not as much of a dump as she thought it would be, secure-locked, lit by candles and with a mountain of vital supplies stockpiled inside. All she's got is the gun, Jack's photo, a few changes of clothes, some bottles of water, and a pack of crackers that make her mouth so dry she has to consume more water. But she also has the car, the means of transportation, which is all he's interested in.

“So, you said you're looking for someone too?”

When he rolls up his sleeve, it's almost like, she already knows what he's going to show her.

“Davy? He's your son?”

“I don't have a son.” He tells her. “If I did, I'd know. You do.”

“Yeah. You would.” But she thinks the fact is he had it worse than her, the sickness...she is so clear in her mind, about Jack. Maybe he needs a visual trigger, a tattoo, a photograph, to bring it back, what there was to his life before.

He throws a cigarette into his mouth, in a gesture she bets took practice. His face in the lighter flame looks eerily familiar, the way he draws it in touching something inside her.

“The only one I _remember_ is my sister. I love her but she didn't pick up my calls.” He nods at the phone on the main table, broken, like it was thrown against a wall. “I don't think we always got along so well...”

“I'm sure she'd still wanna know you were okay.” She says. “Maybe her phone died. Mine did.”

He shrugs one shoulder, and changes the subject, “Want me to see about something to eat?”

She's not about to turn that down, nods with an affirming smile. While she doesn't fully trust him, he's the first person she's talked to properly in weeks and it's sort of nice to have mutual needs, to be able to share stories with someone.

 

“Let's get going.” She says, when he emerges from the bedroom with his hair sticking up scruffily at the back. She refused his offer to sleep in the bed of someone she's only just met, and on the couch she dreamed of the man again, the monstrous figure hiding behind a kind face who hurt people. The worst part is she could have stopped it, it was somehow all her fault.

“Jeez, did you sit up all night? Give me a minute.”

He is still sleepy-eyed following her out in the hallway, fastening the chains across the door. He pats it lovingly, like saying goodbye.

He takes her down to the garage where he says the cans are, and he's good for it, fills the tank from several he kept inside a padlocked box. When she tries to help, he sarcastically tells her that he thinks he's got it under control.

“Yeah, I get you're intelligent.” She says to him. “More than you give off, anyhow.” He looks surprised, and laughs. The laugh is dirty, like his mouth.

“Oh snap, Linden, got any more where that came from?”

She'd felt obliged to give him her name when he told her his, though names really mean nothing any more. Still a first-name basis implies an attachment that she doesn't want, and so she calls him Holder. He seems to understand, he responds in kind, anyway.

She shakes her head, “That's it for now.” She chooses to ignore the wave of deja-vu. He makes her smile, that's all.

 

They drive all morning. He tries to make conversation a few times but she just cranes her neck, looking out onto the sidewalk of a misty grey neighbourhood, and after a few false starts he gets the message. Next time he speaks, he's telling her he needs to piss. She pulls over because he's been quiet for perhaps half an hour, something she didn't believe him capable of. His hoodie rides up as he gets out and she sees the gun tucked into his jeans before he straightens up and wanders off.

She could drive away and leave him stranded. She got what she wanted. But he appears to trust her, didn't ask to take the keys with him or anything, like she would have done. So she'll give him the benefit of the doubt, try to get him to be honest. It might end badly but then, she can protect herself.

She stares ahead as he straps himself back in, aware of his every move. Obliviously, he snags a bag of chips from the multipack in the back. In the back of her mind, she notes he's already way too much at home in her car. If she lets it go, he'll be putting his feet up soon enough.

“Why d'you bring it?” She asks, five minutes later, her eyes on the road.

“Bring what?” He asks, crunching his chips, playing dumb.

“That gun in the back of your pants. Why d'you even have it?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “There's some psychos out there. Far be it from me to think it might be a good idea for us to have one.”

“I meant, why in the first place?”

He glances at her, sidelong. “I was a cop. City homicide police. Got my badge back home if you don't believe me. We'd have to turn around, but...”

The image of him in a suit and tie jumps to mind, not such an incongruous look on him as she would have thought. She breathes a sigh of relief, or possibly defeat. “There's no need. I believe you.”

 

“You don't have to stand right behind me.” She hisses at night, as they approach a small band of survivors congregated around a flaming trash barrel. She can feel his presence at her back, giving off more heat than the fire.

He lifts his hands, steps off, goes to take his smoke.

She breathes easier when he's gone, like she isn't beholden to him not to get her ass kicked, but it's something else, as well – her insides aren't so tight, all of a sudden.

She makes a circle back to him, talking to people, asking if they have seen a boy matching Jack's description, showing those few that don't ignore her the photograph. No one says anything helpful, though some look like they wish the could, others tell her in no uncertain terms to give up, hasn't it been more than a month since the disaster struck?

He is warming his hands with a couple of guys that look like brothers, grinning around his cigarette. One of them is actually laughing at something he said, and she sees him as he was before, maybe, relatively friendly, endearingly obscene. She wonders what happened to make that person return. When he sees her staring at him, he flicks his still-lit stub into the can and comes to her without even saying goodbye to the guys he'd made conversation with.

“No joy?”

She shakes her head.

“You wanna go anywhere else?”

She shakes her head again. She doesn't really feel like traipsing around another hopeless place tonight.

As they're walking back to the car he asks something that pulls her up short. “Who's his father?”

“What?”

“His father, you know, his dad, his old man. You don't just pop out a kid on your own, Linden.”

“I don't know. That was a long time ago.”

“You were on your own with him? With Jack?”

She nods.

“I'm sorry.”

She shrugs and smiles. “Don't be. It happens all the time.”

“Yeah, I know.”

 

She has the same nightmare she has experienced for the past few weeks, except it gets worse every time. The man tells her in his soft, weary voice that she rode with him while a boy's body was stored in the trunk of his car, confiding in her like she is his accomplice. He tells her she has to do something, she has to answer for something he can't.

 

She jerks awake spasmodically in the small hours, and turns to see Holder still sleeping, his long body folded up beside her. He doesn’t wake even when the weak sunlight filters across his closed eyelids, his sallow skin, throwing up the marks the sickness left on him.

She looks into the rear view and sees her own eyes in the mirror are ringed with dark circles which contrast to the paleness of her face even more than his. She looks like absolute shit, but she knew that – she doesn't know why it should _matter_ all of a sudden. Sarah casts one more look at him, and then just starts driving, taking care to go slow.

After a while they pass the first other car she's seen so far, which honks at her as she drives by. Holder's woken by the noise, coughs and croaks something that sounds like 'bullet', pulls himself up in the seat. She passes him the water from the well of the door beside her.

“Can I have a cigarette?” He requests, once he's drunk from it.

“If you give me one.”

He lifts an eyebrow at the demand, but passes her one without argument.

“I'd like a large coffee.” He says, when they've both lit up. “Soya milk, sugar, all the sprinkles.”

She pulls a face.

“What, you don't like coffee?”

“I take it black.”

He huffs, that's funny for some reason. “Of course you do.”

 

They repeat that pattern for several days, driving on, stopping when they see people. He usually waits while she does her rounds, sitting on the curb, scanning faces or staring into space. Earlier she'd seen him look up at this young brunette who still had her executive skirt-suit on with his face twisted in a kind of anguish, trying to remember. Sarah wondered if he was thinking about his sister. He got up to talk to the girl, asking her name, but she had shrunk from him and run away. Now he is more than a little upset.

“What did she think I was gonna do, exactly?” He asks _her_ , like she's got all the answers.

“Don't take it personally.” She says.

He goes into a sulk, but what else could she say except that she wasn't surprised? It's the sensible thing, for the women who are left, not to engage with a too-forward man. She's only just starting to count herself lucky that she did, although then he wasn't forward with her, she was the one who coaxed him out of his solitary state.

“If you ask me,” He condescends to break a long silence, “We'd be better off checkin' out some places Jack used to hang around.”

“I didn't ask you. And I think I'd know where my own son would go.”

“I'm just sayin', I used to...I dealt with that stuff...runaways, and stuff.”

“Jack didn't run away. I don't know where he went, but he didn't run off.”

“Okay.” He sighs, but he doesn't sound convinced enough for her liking.

“He wouldn't do that. He might just have forgotten where home is, that's all, they said the virus affected everybody in different –”

A dilapidated building on the other side of the street catches her eye, and she trails off, hit by such a strong sense of recognition she forgets for a second where she is, in the car with him.

“Hold on. I know that place. The hotel.”

He follows her gaze, “That cheap-lookin' dive? You think he might be there?”

“Yeah. Maybe.” She swings the car across the road. “Let's see.”

 

Holder dawdles in the entrance for a look around at the empty desk, the deserted foyer.

“How the hell we gonna know which room it is, Linden? Linden!”

She's already racing up the stairs. He swears, and runs after her.

On every flight all the dingy hallways look the same, but after she's lost count of the floors there is one that seems to almost oscillate in front of her. As she walks down it, she knows she has done so before. She stops decisively in front of one of the doors, turns to Holder lagging behind, looking faintly exasperated.

“This is it.” She says, “Room 203.”

She twists the handle, to discover it's locked. Her next course of action is to hammer at the door.

“Jack?” She calls. “Jack, are you in there?”

There is no response. Holder folds his arms, leans against the wall. “Well, I ain't playin' fetch to get the key.”

She pats her pockets, vaguely thinking she must have once had lockpicks in there. Maybe she used to lose her keys a lot, though from what she knows of herself, it seems unlike her. “I'll go down.” She relents, then adds acidly, “You take a rest.”

He scoffs, “Look, Linden, just, stand back, all right?”

“Don't.” She says, pointlessly, before he takes a heavy-footed stomp at it. The plaster was already cracked at about the height of his head, and the whole door caves in off the frame with two more well-placed kicks.

He smirks, about to say something, but she brushes past him, into the room.

“Jack?” She calls again. There is no answer.

She checks the main area with the made bed, the bathroom, the tiny kitchen alcove. There is no food in the fridge. It seems like no one's been here in weeks, years even, though it was kept clean, everything orderly as if there was never any teenage boy living here at all. Still she thinks she was here, at some point. Otherwise why would she have had to pull the car over, why would she feel there was _some_ thing in this room? She goes around it ten times trying to find any remnant of her son, even digging behind the sofa, looking in the cupboards. All of them are bare. Holder would say this was totally stupid, and at this rate she'd be kind of inclined to agree.

She comes back to find him staring fixedly at the floor, then bending down, as if he sees something there to retrieve, some object that belongs to him. As far as she can tell, there is nothing on the beige carpeting.

“What is it?” She asks. She was going to tell him she must have been wrong somehow, that there was no sign of Jack, but it seems there's something for him here too, Holder. She can tell what he's reliving is significant.

“Nuthin'.” He replies, sounding strangely far away.

“Are you okay?” She grips his forearm, gives it a tug. “Come on, Holder.”

He blinks, “Yeah, I'm fine. Fine.” He pulls his arm away, gives her a look that is almost reproachful.

 

They use another room to take a shower, which is cold, but it runs. He lets her go first and when she steps out of the bathroom he is lain on the bed, shoes still on, staring up at the ceiling. Obviously whatever it was he remembered, it unsettled him. But if he's not going to tell her voluntarily, she's not going to inquire further.

While he's in there, she finds herself lying down where he was, curling into the space previously occupied by him. She doesn't want to waste any time, but she is so tired. She listens to the water till she hears it stop and through half-open eyes, she sees him pulling on his clothes, going to smoke at the window. The next thing she knows is him shaking her awake, though there was something awful in between, still lingering. She turns away from his concerned gaze.

“You were moving all weird, screaming, sort of.” He says. “Or trying to. You weren't making any noise.”

He looks so spooked, she almost feels she has to say sorry. “It was just a bad dream.”

“Was it about Jack?”

“No! No, something else...this man...”

She can't explain any further, still it seems like he just understands. “Someone from before.”

She nods. “I guess so.”

“I dream about this person, this tough little girl. It's kind of a good one, but then she goes away and I always feel so guilty.” He pauses, cautiously. “The guy in yours, is he bad?”

She shudders. “He's a monster.”

She sits up, feeling like she has to prove she can carry on, somehow.

“Linden, if he hurt you in real life, I...” He scrunches his nose, trying to think of something adequate. “I'ma rip his balls off.”

“That's not necessary.” She reaches across to squeeze his knee, the first time she's really consciously considered touching him. “But sweet of you, all the same.”

He grins, the brooding look falling away. “So you okay, then?”

“Yeah.”

He says it for her; “Let's get out of here.”

 

It's a week since the hotel, by her count. He thinks it has been less time than that. Sometimes she is one smart comment away from throwing him out of the car, sometimes she thinks if she didn't have him by her side she would go mad. They are almost out of gas and food, and, crucially for him, cigarettes.

“Fuck this.” He says, getting out, when they're done sharing the last bottle of water.

“What're you doing?” She thinks he's leaving, either because the payment for his passage has nearly expired, or he believes he'd be better off on his own.

“Going scrounging, Linden, what you think?”

“Oh. Well, be careful out there.”

His expression verges on triumphant. “Aw, you're worried –”

She rolls her eyes, reaches across for the handle and slams the door shut.

 

She's only dozing, lost in a long-ago afternoon of pushing Jack on a swing as a small boy, enjoying herself even though the grass in the park is faded and she can't hear his laughter. It's too soon when Holder's voice breaks through and drags her back to the present, to night-time in the world where he, not Jack, is the one saving grace.

“Linden, wake up.”

“No.” She groans, and then her lap is full of candy. Butterfinger, Snickers, Twizzlers, everything. She looks up to find he took them from the pockets of his hoodie.

“There's more where that came from. It ain't far, you'll see. We can leave the car.”

She doesn't like that idea, still she's too intrigued by the sound of 'more' to say so.

“Which way?” She asks needlessly, taking advantage of him turning around to point to get her gun out of the dash compartment, and stow it away on her person though he might not have noticed anyway – he is buzzing with an infectious energy, the enthusiasm to show her what he's come across blinding him to all else.

 

The front of the convenience store is barred by corrugated metal shutters, but he found the back door and forced entry again. If he was a former cop, she thinks he'd been one who frequently bent the law to arrest those who broke it. Except there are no laws, any more, so she can't fault him.

The lights are on inside, he must have flipped the switch on his earlier visit, and the fully stacked aisles look almost surreal. She has never seen such a sterile place look more inviting.

“How come no one found this?” She asks, stunned.

He shrugs, like, who cares. “Come on, it gets better. Thought you'd be thirsty, first.”

She lets him take her by the hand, past the sensible things they should stock up on, to the liquor section.

 

She sits on the end of her coat, and he says it doesn't bother him, the seat of his jeans on the cold floor. She thinks that's because he's on his fourth beer poured into an empty stomach, that's bound to numb anyone to at least the discomfort of hard laminate.

His head lolls back against the cabinet. “You ever pray at all, Linden?”

She shakes her head, trust him to get all psuedo-spiritual when he's drunk.

“Well then this is gonna sound really wack, but when I came out the other side of that virus, there was just no one, you know? And I prayed so hard for somebody to turn up, my sister maybe, and say I had a place with them, 'cause I had no idea where to look for that shit.”

He breaks off, implying the rest with his eyes. He's expecting an answer, but her throat's dried up. She takes another mouthful of scotch. _No, I don't believe in that stuff...there's just nothing_. Yeah, he's drunk, but so is she. “I'm sorry.”

“For what?” The faint lines form in his forehead as he frowns, genuinely confused.

“That I didn't find you sooner.”

He looks even more troubled at that. “Jeez, I wasn't trying to make you sorry for me like I was a stray dog or somethin'...”

“That's not what I meant.” She says, reaching up to rub his furrowed brows. “I meant that you answered my prayers, too. Even if I didn't know that's what they were.”

“Oh, okay.” His arm slides around her shoulders, and she lets him lean in to her very slightly, not complaining about the alcohol on his warm breath.

“Linden.” He whispers. “You're so small. You're so...” and then he's actually _nuzzling_ her, butting his nose against her neck.

“So what?” She laughs, because it tickles, with his facial hair, soft though it is.

“So great.” He sighs, wrapping his arm around her waist now, practically crushing her but she doesn't really mind. His lips brush the corner of her own on the way up to peck her cheek affectionately, maybe to have made it seem like an accident if she didn't then take hold of his tilted chin and pull it down, to be level with hers.

“Really?” He breathes, which is exactly what she is thinking at his hesitation. She would have thought that action was pretty much unmistakable.

“I think so.” She says. “Don't you?”

He nods fervently, though he doesn't yet move. Maybe she is gripping his jaw too tight. She lets go and curls her fingers in the strings of his hoodie, to draw him in. He's as tractable as she is brittle, simply allowing that, but she still has to come some of the way herself to make him sure enough. He kisses her properly, meaningfully, almost attacking her mouth. She supposes it'd be useless telling him to slow down now.

Some of their empty bottles go rolling away as he pulls her thighs over his, hitches her legs around his middle. He's kneeling and she's lying down, he has to bend his whole back to get to her, but he's more than flexible enough.

His fingers are tracing the contours of her body over her clothes and she's about to grab them and lead them underneath, shove them either up her sweater or down her pants, when the awareness of a noise growing louder outside makes her break away from him. She turns her head to listen, her flight instinct kicking in.

“Where are you goin'?” He asks, then he hears it too. The hum of a heavy engine, and what sounds like a whole group getting out, having been attracted by the lights.

“Aw fuck.” He says, sitting up, reaching behind him for the grip of his gun, like he's going to defend this place against them, however many there are.

There is a clanging as a metal bar hits the front shutters, accompanied by shouting about how to prise them open. A rough male voice rises above the rest and calls out that if there's anyone in there, they better run.

Holder growls, _No_ , still unwilling to give up his find. She takes his other hand, using it to make a brace and help her stand. “Come on, Holder.” She says. “We weren't gonna hole up here forever.”

“We weren't?” He slurs, but he lets her drag him away. They scavenge as much as they can carry between them, he gets his cigarettes, and she picks up the condoms before they leave the way they came, for when they get another chance.

 

At the side of the building the double cab the gang came in is still running, the exhaust fuming out into the darkness. Holder stops, curiosity aroused.

“Linden, wait.”

She looks, from it to him, then shakes her head. “They probably left some one looking out inside.”

Her words fall on deaf ears as usual, he's walking towards it, out of the light thrown from the store now being ransacked and the view of any mirrors, around the back of the truck. She tenses as he opens the passenger door, but no one lunges out and grapples him the ground. She comes along side him to find he was right.

“Those _bone_ heads.” He says, so disdainfully.

“Yeah.” She's still not on board with him. “Holder, let's get back.”

“Nah.” he declines, and before she can prevent him he's clambered in, checking the fuel gauge.

“It's got almost a full tank. Come on. I'll drive.”

“My car –” She says, but it seems he's set on this, she can't talk him out. He's extending his hand to her, imploring as best he can. She could, by this point follow him anywhere.

“Might be those pricks smashed it up already. And you know we were gonna have to find somethin' else soon anyway. Saves us jacking another one.”

She hesitates one more second, then swings herself up beside him. “Just don't crash.”

 

He doesn't crash, but he does take random turns off the road sickeningly fast, so as not to drive straight and make them easy to catch up with. She thinks he should just put as much distance between them and the store as possible, only knowing they are actually going to the outskirts when the buildings start becoming farther apart and the tyres begin sticking in mud. He looks at her for confirmation of the place he has chosen before he parks up.

Without preamble, she reaches to pop his button. For a moment, he's suspended, his tongue touching his top lip, his eyes watching her hand, and she takes the proffered opportunity of just feeling him. His skin is as warm as she thought it'd be. His stomach sinks inward, his hipbones are ridges sticking out. His cock pokes up through his boxers, getting hard, either at what they did, or at what she's doing, or a combination of both.

“I hope you're gonna take care of that now, Linden.” He snarks, and shudders when she says she is.

She very deliberately turns on the heat and pulls her hair band out, then climbs into the rear seat, gesturing he wait until she's shed her coat and her sweater. He won't though, he wants to take off her jeans, and briefs, reaching between the seats and dragging her forward by her belt.

Even when he gets back there with her he's really unashamedly eager, hums little frustrated sounds under his breath as she rolls the rubber on. His legs are raised up, his knees at her back, pushing her into him. Meanwhile she unzips his hoodie more slowly, divests him of the t-shirt and wife beater. There are other tattoos she isn't entirely surprised by, a pattern of ornate whorls on his bicep, the word _Serenity_ spanning his chest in thick, dark ink.

“Pretty extreme.” She thumbs his nipples underneath it.

“I would've had a good reason.” he says, and she thinks it's a measure of how far they've come he doesn't sound _that_ defensive.

“I'm sure you did.”

She crosses her arms to lift up her tank, and he nods when she asks if he wants it off, like _obviously_. He grasps her hips, to steady her against him, can't delay any longer and snaps his own into her. It feels good, the vigorousness, it being him on the giving end, her on the receiving though she is on top. She takes his wrists and folds them over each other, holding them there with his palms up so that his hands can receive her breasts, when she leans down. Her hair falls over her forehead, and he stops for a second, really intent on her.

“Okay?” She asks him. He just nods again and works even harder, not letting up till their skin is sweating and he's groaning and she's so over-sensitised. She could come any second, except she holds herself back from sliding down onto him, till he has. She only has to jerk a certain way to make it happen, once he is still and catching his breath, just looking at him satisfied like that gives her such pleasure.

“Mmm.” He complains, when she pulls herself off him, only to get rid of the condom and make sure all the locks are down from the inside. She finds a sizeable blanket stuffed in the recesses of the vehicle which is patterned as if it belonged to a child, leading her to believe the gang at the store probably weren't the truck's original owners either. She twists it sadly in her hands, before crawling back to Holder with it.

There is just about enough room for both of them to lie on their sides, facing each other. She gives him a smile as she fits in beside him, whispering it's nice, and he hugs her so tightly after that, pressing kisses on her even as he falls asleep.

 

She wakes to daylight coming through the windows, him playing with her hair and trying to surreptitiously flex his limbs beneath her.

“Hey.” He says, at her moving her head to look at him. “Didn't wanna disturb you.”

“You should have.” She manoeuvres herself to sit. Christ, she was lying right on top of him. “You make a good mattress though, thanks.”

He smirks. “Is that it?”

“No.” She slips her hand between his too-lean thighs, squeezes at the juncture of his crotch. “You're good at some other things too.”

“That's all I wanna hear.” He shifts up to her, brushes her hair behind her shoulder, like he can't stop touching it, kisses her neck like carrying on from last night. “But I do kind of seriously need to stretch my legs, can we walk for a while?”

“Sure.” They covered enough miles in the dark to be safe, and the sidewalk is lined with trees, providing some cover for their stolen ride. She cracks the door of the truck open, suddenly desperate for some fresh air. There are only abandoned houses on the other side of the street.

He's sluggishly getting dressed, wincing at how the same worn denim clings to him, over the same unwashed shorts. “Maybe later we could break into one of those, find us some new attire.”

Her own clothes are musty and stick to her too, when she puts them on. She's really got no objection. But they never get to do that, something else happens first, too quickly for her to control.

 

They are in step, she is eating a Kit Kat from their stash for breakfast and he is smoking a cigarette. One minute, he's there, in the middle of a sentence, and the next he's gone from her side, _running_ after someone walking ahead of them. Some lone blonde woman with a willowy build, hunched in a field jacket.

“Liz! Hey, Liz...”

The girl turns, snarls, and swipes at him, her nails scoring his face. He swears in pain, still swaying as she takes out a knife and raises it, clearly not even contemplating going for his gun. Sarah moves as fast as she ever has to grab hers, aims and fires without a second's hesitation and the woman falls forward onto Holder. He catches her without thinking about it, supports her body as the dull, rusty blade clatters from her dead hand onto the ground. It's only when he looks at it that it seems to sink in what happened and he slowly lets her drop.

 

“So you had a piece on you too.” He says blankly, some time later as she drives them far away from that place, staring out the window at the uninhabited fields. He's still got the blonde girl's blood on his hooded sweatshirt. He's not bleeding, very lucky to have got away with a shallow scratch across his cheek. It probably stings like a bitch, but he's keeping quiet about that.

“You don't have to thank me,” she says.

“That could've been my sister.”

“It wasn't. You think your sister would do that to you?”

“Maybe.” He says. She wonders what the hell he did to make him believe that, and also who the other young woman was before, the one in her tattered suit.

 

The monster is back after the incident, putting paid to the peace and happiness she was having. He is reprehensible when he talks to her, but she finds herself even more loathsome, for listening his lies. She puts a bullet in him, and following the shot, she hears a voice which isn't his. It's far more youthful, vital, alive; it is _Holder's_. He shouldn't be here, though she doesn't question how he found her. He is telling her to put the gun _down_. Look at me, he urges her, and then the monster wants her to look at him, too. You loved me, he says. That is altogether too much to bear. And Holder's taking this all in, telling her what to do. He shouldn't _be here_ , he shouldn't come into this. Sorry, she thinks, and just shut up, and lifts the gun again.

She opens her eyes lying in the truck bed with him above her, the one who would never set out to manipulate her or play on her love for him, or so she thought.

His frantic babbling in the dream merges into a calming littany which is traitorous to her ears. “Hush, now, Linden. Sarah. You're not responsible for what some twisted fuck did...”

She fights him off, shoving his arms away, unbalancing him so he stumbles back towards his side. He isn't expecting that, even though they'd both chosen to sleep in opposite corners without speaking about it, that evening.

“Get away from me!” She shrieks, in the face of his confusion. “You were there!”

She's certain he knows what she's talking about, as his expression shifts from shocked to hard, cold, almost cruel. To his credit, he doesn't act the innocent with her. “Are you always gonna treat me like something suspect? I thought we'd gotten past that.”

“That's how I knew you.” She goes on. “You saw it all, what happened to me.” She pokes his chest. “You thought you could make it all right by pretending to help me, or something?”

“I was tryna help because I was tryna help.”

“No, you want to atone for what a bad person you were.” She knows the look that's gonna cross his face, that he can't hide his hurt, and also that it won't stop her, she can't stop herself. “As if that matters now. You're just a lost soul, trying to justify your survival, believing in some cosmic _thing_ that doesn't exist. If you even believe in it. You're full of such bullshit.”

He breathes in hard, turns aside as if absorbing it, then towards her again, dead-eyed. There's no need to continue, she's crushed him.

“You know what?” He jumps down to the ground, starts gathering up his stuff from inside. “See you on the fuckin' flipside, Linden.”

“Allright, go.”

“Yeah, good luck finding your son.”

“Get lost!” she screams at his back, leaning forward, her hands clenched around the metal edge of the platform. “Just fuck off already!” She makes like she doesn't see him flinch.

 

The skies above the grassland darken when he's been gone a while, it begins to rain heavily and doesn't let up. She gets into the driver's seat and pounds the wheel in a fit of anger, sounding the horn, hoping he's still close enough he hears it, though that's doubtful. Here she is, alone, telling herself it's the result she wanted. She thinks about the woman she shot, gone crazy out there all on her own. Holder would rather have been knifed by her because she reminded him of the sister he disappointed.

He also left her the means to move on, and all the food, presumably in his haste to leave, but she can't start the truck he stole for them, or eat with the thought of him starving. _Self sacrificing prick_ , she thinks, _why couldn't you have been honest with me, then we wouldn't be in this situation_ , but inside her there is a rising sense of shame.

Instead of getting ready to go without him she pulls out her only photo of Jack. She stares at it, remembering what Holder sounded like when he said he'd been fond of her son. She shouldn't have discounted that as something she couldn't deal with, they should have talked about it more, she should have dragged it out of him. And then there were those things she just knew about him – smoker – knew he had those tattoos before he showed them to her. He showed her all she needed to jolt her foreknowledge, and what she had of him was positive, until she was confronted with it, so starkly, his presence alongside the monster. But no matter how tangled up he is in the bad stuff, she needs him, she sees that in his absence. Maybe in not putting up hardly any defence, he didn't view himself so much as blameless as taken for granted.

She delays departure all day, until dusk starts to fall, before accepting she's going to have to go back, after him. He can't have gone far, not on foot. Still, her heart hammers that it's like Jack, he's been swallowed up in this ruined city, and she might never find him again.

 

She drives through the streets trying to think of where she'd end up if she was Holder, checking countless empty doorways, following anybody out in the open, then despairing they're someone else. Almost as she's given up hope of locating him tonight and therefore not ever, through the rain still splattering on the windscreen, she makes out a bowed form sheltering from it at a glass-covered bus station. They can't be expecting a bus, so she knows it's him, and he's been waiting for her. She shoves the gear lever forward, jumps out and runs over, splashing water up from the ground.

When she gets to him, words fail her. She just takes a seat on the bench beside him, and slowly he turns to face her. He has his hood up, not wanting the beginnings of a bruise on his forehead to be paid any attention to, where it looks like it met with a wall. She tries to touch it, but he dodges her, and she desists, physically at least.

“Someone did that to you? I'll rip their balls off.”

That raises a slight smile, which flickers and is gone. “I did it. Linden.”

“Yes.”

“You know why there's no pregnant women around any more?”

She hadn't even thought about that, but now he mentions it... “No. Why?”

“'Cause they evacuated them. I saw a poster down by this clinic I recognised. And then I remembered my girlfriend, she....” He pauses, internally debating whether to tell her something. “She was carrying our child. And I don't know what happened to them.”

“I'm sorry.” He'd been in a relationship, had a baby on the way. She knows it's selfish but she'd almost hoped...well, never mind what she'd hoped. She wonders if he feels bad, about what they did. He's probably not even thinking about it right now.

“Where were they sent? Did it say?”

“It said Chicago, to receive some kind of vaccine. But who knows if it worked, or if she even got there.” He looks at her, desperately. “Would she have just gone without even telling me?”

This is a question about his character. He thinks, given his general desertion, he's not the type of person that should still be around. Yet neither is she, she let something terrible happen, and then had to do even more wrong to make it right. So she is no one to answer that. She can only give him what he needs but would never ask for by taking him in her arms, and suddenly he is shaking, crying, grabbing onto her like a lifeline. All his dependence is on her, now.

“Hey. We don't know you lost everything yet. She – they'll still be out there, I –” No, she doesn't promise. She just keeps hold of him, stroking his wet hair, rubbing soothing circles on his bent back.

 

The next morning, he is subdued, like he feels embarrassed about breaking down, as if it sets them back. She'd give him time for anything, though he doesn't seem to realise that, or want to admit he needs it.

“Bunch of people are leaving the city.” He says, smoking on the fold-down steps of the truck. “I saw them yesterday, had a talk. They're all going with this guy called Orpheus, whoever that is. He can't walk but he thinks he can lead a fucking exodus.” He scoffs, but she can tell he's more than intrigued by the idea.

“So are you going?” She asks, “They might take you to Chicago.”

“Linden, I don't wanna leave you again.” He swallows. “You saw how long I lasted.”

The decision isn't easy, still it makes things that way, and it is clear and resolute. “Then I'll come with you. I owe you that, after I drove you away.”

His eyes widen. “You will, for real? What about Jack?”

She feels tears threatening to spill, and blinks hard to make sure he doesn't see, he doesn't doubt the commitment she's made to him. “I think I might have lost him. Maybe he was gone already. You should know, I'm not great at admitting things, to myself. Couldn't admit I knew you, from all the things I saw you do. ”

“Don't say that. I held stuff back, as well.”

She smiles wryly. “No, you always told me the truth. Before, too, I'm sure of it. And Holder, for what it's worth, I think you were a good guy, before. You were good for me, whatever else we were.”

He gets up, pulls her against him, just carefully enough.

“I know you don't believe in God.” He murmurs lowly, as though he thinks she might freak at this. “But do you believe you're meant to be with someone, no matter how, no matter what?”

It seems pretty straightforward it's her he's referring to, still, it could be her and Jack, or him and his girlfriend, or his sister...

“You and me, Linden.” He sighs, prompted into giving it up by her silence. “Cuz that's how it is.”

“I do now.” She says, burrowing her head into his chest.

“So from here on in we stick together, right?”

“Yeah.” she likes – no, loves the sound of that – _from here on_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for getting to the end! This was so long.
> 
> Title from Gotye, _The Only Thing I Know_
> 
> To Lilysmum: I seriously can't ever thank you enough for all your contributions to this fic. And your patience with it, for six fricking months or something? Holy baguette! You truly are a treasure.


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